


Grin

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lancelot contemplates loss and happiness.  Arthur joins him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grin

**Author's Note:**

> prompt curtesy of Cat.

 

  
Night surrounded him. Black and heavy and not a star to be seen. Lancelot snorted and lifted his wineskin, the ground he sat on damp and chilly, the cold leeching into his bones and slender buttocks. The leathers he wore were old and thin and his padded green jacket wasn't quite enough clothing for the weather, but his brain buzzed and he couldn't shut down and he didn't care about what covered his skin.

Right now, he didn't care much about anything, save the fact he was alive and his brother in arms Galehaut was unmoving in the ground.

Not anything new, really. He should be at the point where he didn't care. Too many brothers had died, and to be honest, he'd closed off his mind a long time ago. The second he'd arrived on the island. Something he'd learned from Tristan; a brilliant idea from the boy who'd kept Lancelot's sanity after being separated from his family. He smiled, a crooked, wickedly sharp slash of lips and teeth and drank more of his wine, the warmth of the liquid cooling rapidly with the cold of the air.

Galehaut's sword stood erect at the head of his grave, an idea Arthur had copied from his father's treatment of his men when they died in service of Rome. Service of Rome. Another snort and another drink and Lancelot was able to better forget the cold that froze him to the spot he sat on, limbs exhausted and mind a torn hole where thoughts and feelings had once existed. Arthur had helped with that - he shook his head and drained the skin.

Stupid, stupid, idiotic choices. He leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, contemplating his brother's fresh grave, and wondering if things would have been easier had he allowed the Woad's blade to take his own life instead of Galehaut's. He wouldn't have to think anymore, he wouldn't have to worry about what would happen after the next three years were over, he wouldn't have to hide his _feelings, thoughts, hate, love, whatever it was_ for Arthur anymore - he spit to the side and cursed, letting his head drop to his arms.

"You wouldn't have let me die, would you?" he whispered to the icy grave, the wind whipping his words from him, carrying them to wherever Galehaut was now. "You would have danced in front of that blue man's sword and taken him out as I could not, this time. As you did."

One missed step, one distraction as Arthur had screamed his name - Galehaut had lost his life because of Lancelot's inability to keep his mind off Arthur, and Arthur's safety, and thought of Arthur's lifeblood spilling onto the hard British soil.

No one could ever forgive him for that, least of all himself.

Something cracked behind him and he whirled, drawing the dagger that lived in his boot, his lithe body turning like an acrobat, a dancer himself, a master of the art of death he had become an expert at.

"You shouldn't be here."

Arthur joined him on the ground with a heavy thump; the commander's armor still protecting his body, still bloody, still dotted with gore. As were Lancelot's face and hands. Wind sang through the icy trees and Arthur attempted to fold up his legs, which wasn't easy with the thick leather trousers he wore.

"Neither should you, lieutenant."

"Have you finished your obeisance?"

"I will not discuss that. Why do you even ask? I know how you feel about it."

"I just wondered what you were doing to make yourself feel worse this evening."

Arthur shot a breath through his nostrils and wipe a bloody hand under them. "Why must you persist in being this way?"

Lancelot opened his mouth to snark back an answer, but the wind that was blowing switched direction and moaned like a live thing, whistling past his ears, freezing his hair to his scalp, forcing his fingers to curl and tuck under his armpits. His dagger he slid back home into his boot, and he pursed his lips, frowning, always frowning, forehead wrinkled in a desperate attempt to hold onto to his valiant anger.

"Fuck's sake, Artos," he sighed, the words slithering out his cracked lips, rage dying slowly, the volatility he worshiped fading as the wind did. "I just don't care anymore." And that was the truth of it, and that was the worst thing he could possibly think. His brother in arms had died protecting him, and he didn't _care_. He didn't care about anything, save living to keep Arthur alive. What kind of joke was that?

Arthur turned grey-green eyes on him, eyes that carried the world, evidenced by the black bags that lived under them. His skin was colorless and dull and gore dotted and when he rolled his lips inward, his mouth became a white slash that Lancelot could not recognize as part of the man he loved. Despite his better judgement and despite his experience. He raised his chin and stared defiantly into Arthur's face, and they stared at each other as the wind switched direction again and blew their dirty hair about their foreheads.

Arthur didn't answer him, and finally Lancelot's face relaxed. He felt his mouth pull - opposite of Arthur's blade lips - and a smile graced his grimy features, a real smile, one that warmed his belly and unfroze his seat that was pressed against the rocky soil. He smiled at Arthur, the expression echoing through his whole body, and Arthur's eyes widened but he did not speak.

_Arthur didn't answer him._ Didn't contradict, didn't argue, didn't yell or force Lancelot into trying to believe in something he wasn't in the mindset to believe. He didn't want to believe in his inherent "goodness," or whatever crap Arthur would try and sell him.

This might be the first time the commander had done that.

Lancelot closed his eyes and let the smile consume him, and after a moment he felt Arthur's broad body slide next to his, and they sat together, quiet, cold, silent, armor touching leather.

Lancelot clasped his hands and lowered his head and continued to smile, bright and comforted and not _alone_ , and he was satisfied with that, no matter the guilt that came with it.


End file.
